


The Hunt

by kickflaw



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bottom Merlin (Merlin), Canon Compliant, Domspace, Idiots in Love, Kink Discovery, M/M, Merlin is a Little Shit, POV Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), PWP, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Rimming, Rough Sex, Smut, Top Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Top Arthur Pendragon/Bottom Merlin (Merlin), early days BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28181049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickflaw/pseuds/kickflaw
Summary: Arthur and Merlin go hunting. What happens after has everything and nothing at all to do with that.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 306





	The Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> I set out to write a Castle Extra about Arthur experiencing true Domspace for the first time with Merlin. Instead I got this: a canon-compliant variation of the dynamics/relationship in that BDSM AU, in which Baby-Hardcore-Dom!Arthur is discovering his kinks while not-a-sub-yet!Merlin makes it really fucking difficult because he's a little shit. 
> 
> When does this happen in canon? You choose. I don't even know. I don't know ANYTHING about this useless extended-metaphor filth or why it exists. 
> 
> Unbetaed, alas.

**The Hunt**

Hunting is one of Arthur’s favorite past-times. As far as leisure activities go, it has it all: careful observation and tracking to challenge the wits; slow and patient sneaking that focuses the mind; the sudden rush, the thrill of the chase, to get the blood up and challenge the body; then the draw and shot of bow and arrow, the _twang_ , the untarnished satisfaction that comes from years of practice manifesting in a perfectly clean kill; finally the tender meat, the _justification,_ the undeniable reason for it.

With this, I feed myself. With this, I feed my people.

Little in Arthur’s life is so certain and clear as hunting. Really, who could complain? Other than Merlin, who doesn’t count because he has done more to establish himself as a simpleton than the gap-toothed drunken beggar who falls into the same well every other week. The less said about Merlin and hunting the better.

The only problem with hunting is that, for the most part, it has to be done in forests. And forests are all well and good, fine, necessary even, Arthur can see that—Gaius with his herb-collecting, important for lumber and whatnot. But the problem with forests is that they make convenient hiding for bandits. And the problem with bandits is that they are stupid, stupid men who attack hunting parties, even when said party is only out for a bit of sport, certainly not carrying any gold, and actively avoiding the actual work of bandit-wrangling.

Bandits. They just have a rotten way of spoiling a nice afternoon. Arthur hates bandits.

Fortunately, however many bandits there may be in this rather sad ambush, it’s not difficult to handle them. Arthur is a paragon of battle-honed martial skill and he keeps company with only the finest of warriors. Well, not counting Merlin. A warrior Merlin is _not._ Bandits present quite a challenge for him, what with the flailing and getting shoved into trees like that. Poor bloke needs to man up a little and not flee towards the stables whenever Arthur suggests a training session. Maybe then he wouldn’t require all that ridiculous ducking about to avoid a knife in the gut or hoof to the head, utterly distracting Arthur as he’s trying to kill their way out of this wretched assault. Nevertheless, considering Merlin’s the only other member of this particular hunting party, it really just goes to show how brilliant Arthur is, doesn’t it? By birth, by nature. He’s gifted in the art of the quick dispatch, single-handedly saving their lives _again_.

Alas, now he’s all muddy and bloody, and isn’t that fantastic? He just had these leathers etched.

“I hate hunting,” Merlin mutters as he gets to his feet. His neckerchief is askew, but he seems otherwise unharmed.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, as one would say ' _you great sissy_.' “Tell me there’s a lake around here.”

Merlin pulls a leaf from his hair. “Uh. There’s a lake around here?” He brushes himself down, checking for further debris.

“Well?” Arthur prompts after a moment (Merlin can be infernally slow sometimes). “Lead the way then.”

“Uh. Ehm.” Merlin looks around and mumbles vaguely, “This way?” but walks off with enough confidence that Arthur feels assured in following. As usual, Merlin has an uncanny ability to sniff out water. Some of the Knights like to complain about Merlin’s presence on these excursions, but the fellow has his uses. The water thing is just one example. He’s also excellent with fire-starting, and handy with the wounded, though he couldn’t set up a tent to save his life. Arthur has perfectly legitimate reasons for always bringing Merlin along. At the very least he makes a decent mule.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later Merlin brings them to a wide, slow-moving section of the river that flows through Camelot’s lands. Arthur claps him on the back and says, “Not a lake.”

Merlin shrugs, says, “Close enough,” and begins to untie his neckerchief.

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Merlin stares at him, holding the ragged red cloth in one hand, as always barely cleverer than a dog with a head injury. Arthur sighs and gestures to the laces of his vest. After a moment, Merlin figures it out only to roll his eyes in a way that should have him in the gaol for a week, which Arthur kindly ignores. The laces, dark with blood, fight Merlin’s fingers, but he manages to wrestle them apart and peel Arthur’s vest off, then his shirt, and then his boots, until Arthur takes over with his breeches and underclothes.

Their clothes get bundled into one mixed-up pile that Merlin rinses quickly and hangs over some nearby branches in the sunlight—Arthur’s embroidered royal linen dripping right next to Merlin’s tattered roughspun—while Arthur eases slowly into the river.

The water is cold, damn cold, but gradually he adjusts and it starts to feel good sluicing through his hands, washing away the last gory hour. Arthur wades further out, up to his chest, then slips beneath to rinse blood splatter from his hair. When he surfaces again Merlin is only knee-deep in the gentle current. Naked, shivering, his skin broken out all over with goosebumps. It does his skinny frame no favors. His nipples are puckered and tight, his cock flaccid against his long, lean thigh.

“For heaven’s sake,” Arthur chides, looking away. “Get it over with.” _Get beneath the water_.

“Just following your brave and noble example,” Merlin snarks back but shuffles deeper anyway, until the river rises above his waist and makes the trail of hair on his abdomen flat and dark against his skin. Arthur dives into the water and swims further away. It’s a big river, he doesn’t know why Merlin has to come over so…close.

Arthur tries not to look again, he really does, scrubbing hard at his wrists and neck where the stickiness is worst. But he fails entirely because Merlin goes under and comes up again with his hair slicked like a raven’s wing against one cheek and across his forehead. Closing his eyes, Arthur focuses on the way the silty river floor crunches up between his toes. Merlin is absurd; Merlin is reckless; Merlin is insolent; Merlin is gawky; Merlin is—Merlin is right next to him. Merlin’s hand is curling around the nape of his neck—

“Are you trying to do that ludicrous thing where you pretend we aren’t sleeping together again?” he asks, smirking like the arrogant bastard he is beneath his simple and innocent farm-boy façade. “We both know why we’re really out hunting. There’s no one else out here. Probably not for miles…” His breath is hot against Arthur’s chilled chin.

And well, that’s torn it, hasn’t it? Arthur needs to stop making these bets with himself that he can resist this for more than a day at a time.

He lets out a small, weak sound (that he will deny with his dying breath) as Merlin puts his mouth to Arthur’s jaw and sucks off the river water there, tongue darting out at the delicate spot where Arthur’s ear starts. He twines his arms around Arthur’s shoulders and with one small movement, their legs slot together, warm and steady in the current that pulls around their bodies. Merlin hmmms against his earlobe, a lovely rumbling sound that compels Arthur’s hands into action: one twists in Merlin’s wet hair, the other clenches on his narrow waist.

He draws Merlin up for a kiss. Water drips down his wrists, their faces, between their lips, open and slick. Merlin licks into his mouth, and oh, he’s hard now, so hard sliding along Arthur’s belly. His tongue tastes like nothing, the empty flavor of water, as cool and easy as a long drink on a brutal day. Arthur sucks it deeper, curls his own around it; Moaning, Merlin grinds them together: wanton undulation that makes Arthur's toes clench and blood pound in his head and his cock _ache_ , caught against Merlin’s bony hip.

It’s always part pain, more pleasure, all _sheer bloody lunacy_ , with Merlin. As if somehow his absurd, reckless, barefaced stupidity is catching, and Arthur’s got it bad. This whole— _thing_ —they have is insane.

Arthur jerks Merlin’s head to the side to get some space, to catch his damn breath. It doesn’t help. Merlin’s neck is pale and slick, bent vulnerable. Arthur wants to bite it and leave a mark, give those neckerchiefs a real purpose. So he does, bites and sucks a bruise into the delicious skin of Merlin’s throat while Merlin shudders and sighs.

“You’re the worst,” Arthur murmurs. “Why do I want you? Fuck, I want you so much.”

Merlin grins, eyes dark slits beneath his lashes as he says, “Glad we can agree on something for once, _my Lord_.”

The prat—he knows _exactly_ what that does to Arthur. Simple words, words he hears every day, words he’s _owed_ , yet from that mouth such a hot jolt of desire straight into Arthur’s gut.

Using his grip in Merlin’s hair, Arthur pulls him further away and _down_ , down and away, tilting him backwards so his spine has to flex, so he _sinks_ onto his back and his legs rise, knobby knees buoyed by the river. Arthur presses between them, grasps one fish-pale thigh tight against his own hip and thrusts—their cocks glide together futilely, friction-less in the river’s embrace. He growls in frustration.

“What, you think you can fuck me like this?” Merlin teases. “Right here, in the water?”

And Merlin’s floating, just floating and waiting for whatever Arthur wants, and Arthur _loves_ him like this: giving in, letting, letting Arthur—do whatever he wants. _Obeying like he always fucking should._ He keeps Merlin low, almost submerged, when he bends down for another filthy kiss. Right now, that’s all he wants: his tongue in Merlin’s wicked mouth, lapping his teeth, Merlin gasping and clawing at Arthur’s shoulders, desperate for a full breath, Merlin completely under his control.

“No,” Arthur finally answers into Merlin’s wet cheekbone.

He lets go suddenly, with a bit of a shove for the fun of it (ha, Merlin’s shocked, wide eyes) and Merlin falls helplessly beneath the river’s surface. It’s just a second before Arthur pulls him back up and hauls him, sputtering, to the grassy embankment, where he shoves Merlin face-down, manhandles his arse up, and tells him to, “Stay like that,” because he’s not sure how much longer he can endure without the slick clutch of Merlin’s arse around his cock.

Hell, what a sight that makes.

“You, you prat, you utter arse—!” Merlin coughs out. But he grasps the grass beneath his palms and does as Arthur told him, only moving to turn his head and watch as Arthur finds then roots through his pack.

He fumbles the oil out. His hands are shaking. Behind his eyes, every time he blinks, he can see the way his cock will look sliding in and out of Merlin’s hole. It’s an image he knows well. Never wants to forget—wants to see it enough to have it burned in his mind forever.

“Ar _thur_ ,” Merlin whines. “Come _on_ , come on.”

“Shut up,” Arthur groans. He can’t take that, Merlin begging, not even a fist around him yet. Merlin’s cock bobs as he spreads his knees a bit more and shifts his hips back and forth, shameless. He won’t touch himself unless Arthur tells him to. Probably. He’d better not.

Arthur drops to his knees behind Merlin and looks for a moment at the way water drips away from Merlin’s spine, down his sides, and between the cheeks of his arse. He’s all wet, writhing like some fey river creature that Arthur has caught.

A hunt; a quarry; a meal.

Abandoning the oil next to Merlin’s knee, Arthur palms his arsecheeks and pulls them apart, then presses his tongue between them.

“What are you, what—?!” Merlin squeaks.

Arthur licks a long stripe from the base of Merlin’s balls to the small of his back and his whole body jerks. Arousal twists in his groin like a snake—he pulls harder on Merlin’s arse, opens him up good, and shapes his tongue flat and wide to taste him. Arthur licks and licks until his world narrows down and he’s dizzy and Merlin is making tiny, sobbing sounds into the ground, and then he wriggles his tongue into Merlin’s hole.

Merlin lets out a girlish, unflattering sound and slaps the earth. Arthur outright laughs at him, _into_ him, which makes him squeal a second time.

There’s so much _flavor_ here—Arthur searches deeper after it, thumbs bruising hard to make room for his chin. His nose is smashed. He can’t breathe, can barely hear Merlin babbling. It’s overwhelming and he wants to never, ever stop, wants to get far enough inside Merlin that a part of him gets stuck there where he could feel it and Merlin could feel it no matter how far apart they were.

Arthur’s never been here before, not like this. Never conquered this space, this new one unfurling inside him. He didn’t really think he could push inside another person this way, that it would be so intense. That his tongue and his cock were connected at the root with a knot of searing want. It hurts all through his jaw, but it’s so worth it.

When he finally pulls back, gasping for air, he can’t tell if it’s saliva or water gleaming on the pink circle of Merlin’s arse. He can’t tell if he’s giving or taking, if he’s in control or out of it. Both. All of it.

“Yeah, fuck, that was—why’d you stop?” Merlin mumbles, shoving his arse backwards for more. “I don’t even...that’s—will you just? Fuck me? I wanna get fucked. I _need to get fucked_ , Arthur, come on.”

“Hmm. Should I?” Arthur pretends to think. He moves his jaw around, hears it pop. He’s suspended beyond urgency for a moment, though his throbbing cock is dribbling precome into the soil. Every nerve in him is sparking, but he’s somehow also calm—the total master of himself (and Merlin, naturally). He bites his lip as he reaches for the oil again. “Should I fuck you, Merlin? Maybe if you ask me nicely. Properly, like a good, _grateful_ servant asks his lord for an arse-full of cock. How do you think that might sound? Here’s a hint: it involves the word please.”

He should know better than to take Merlin’s acquiescence for granted. Should definitely know better than to tease too much. And he really, really does, except that he often forgets because it’s just so fun. But Merlin is surprisingly unable to handle not getting his way for too long, considering he’s a servant.

“Fine, I’ll do it myself,” Merlin snarls. He flips over, rudely kicks Arthur out the way, and snatches the bottle of oil for himself. The cork goes flying. Merlin spills nearly the entire thing onto his hand and stomach and then he twists two trembling fingers into his arse all at once, heaving a great groan of satisfaction as they reach the last knuckle. “Fuck, yes.”

“Bloody hell!” Arthur grabs Merlin’s wrist and wrenches it away. Merlin whimpers, empty hole gaping. The oil on it shines in the pre-dusk light.

“I can’t take it anymore. I _can’t_.” Merlin pants up at him, challenging eyes on fire. “Should’ve taken up with Gwaine when he offered. Bet he’d give it to me whenever I ask. Maybe I will when we get back.”

Furious, Arthur glares back, his awareness constricted to the singular need to _make Merlin obey_ (and _then_ fuck him stupid).

“No one,” he says darkly, “is ever going touch you like this again, except me. No one. Get back on your stomach.”

Instead, Merlin throws himself forward and tackles Arthur to the best of his ability. They tussle, both angry and full of want, oil smearing between their damp chests. Arthur is barely able to keep his temper and strength in check, especially when Merlin scratches him like some feral beast. He doesn’t want to hurt Merlin. Except, he realizes, he _does_ kind of want to hurt Merlin—wants to bruise him (his neck, oh), choke him, fuck him while he's bound and gagged and sore. The urge is there, all wrapped up with the sex and the control and it _stuns_ him.

Because of that (and no doubt some of that crazy supernatural luck of Merlin’s), Merlin actually manages to heave Arthur onto his back and straddle him. He grins wildly as he grips Arthur’s cock with one hand and drags the head over his hole, gasps, “Ha,” when Arthur curses and thrusts upwards helplessly.

“Yeah?” he taunts. “You want me? Maybe _you_ should say please, _my Lord_.”

“Next time I'm going to tie you down,” Arthur promises, letting his head bang back against the ground as he grabs Merlin’s hips and drives his cock up inside him, into that hot, sweet clutch.

Merlin groans, taking all of Arthur on the first stroke. His body is slick and tight. After that, there’s not much Arthur can do but hold on. Pleasure rolls over him like a wave and he goes under. He gives up, lets the storm of Merlin have him.

Bracing his hands on Arthur’s chest, Merlin sets a savage pace, each deep, searing slide a lightning bolt, thunder rumble near-near-nearer-orgasm. It feels so good, out past beyond good into white-out wordless drowning. Merlin rides him nigh-violently: he’s an onslaught, a perfect force of goddamn nature. It must hurt him. It almost hurts Arthur. All he can do is dig his fingers into Merlin's thighs and try to match him thrust for thrust as his senses saturate and overload.

Merlin’s head falls back. His eyes are closed, mouth open, cock slapping Arthur's belly each time he slams down. Arthur stares dumbly at the shape of Merlin's lips, the pink colors inside, the glint of his teeth, thinks about bloodying it, and he hits his edge faster than he will ever admit to, arching, fucking into Merlin, filling him with pumps of come. Merlin ignores it, continues to grind down on Arthur’s cock with quick snaps of muscle, using Arthur until he gets there too, crying out, painting strips of come over Arthur’s torso.

Merlin is something strange and delightful after orgasm. Pliant, dazed, submissive. He’s still shuddering through his aftershocks when Arthur flips them over, rolls Merlin to his stomach once more, finally, and spreads him again. His arse is a mess—water, saliva, oil, seed. Arthur trails three fingers through it before working them in past the swollen rim of Merlin’s hole. And Merlin hisses but doesn’t fight it, let’s Arthur push it all back up inside him and finger him slowly, like he didn't get to earlier. Right now, he figures he really could do anything he wanted to Merlin, anything at all. 

Next time, Arthur thinks. Merlin may like to get his way, but he has nothing on Arthur. Arthur is a damn prince.

(A prince who’s just spent a timeless delight rolling around on a riverbank. He’s all dirty again. Dammit.)

**END**

* * *

Talk to me about all the things on [tumblr](https://kickflaw.tumblr.com/).


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